


A Little Bit Of Respect

by heyitsdia0



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 1960s, 1960s Music, 1967 to be exact, A few months after the holy water scene, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale has friends, Aziraphale is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), CW: Sexually Aggressive Behavior, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Polari, Possessive Behavior, clubs, i think it counts anyways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:42:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25450060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyitsdia0/pseuds/heyitsdia0
Summary: A few months after he gives the tartan flask to Crowley back in 1967, a friend decides to take Aziraphale out to a local nightclub to help him forget his troubles.But what happens when he gets there is nothing like he’s ever expected...
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 53





	A Little Bit Of Respect

**London, 1967**

_ “Do you know Dorothy?”  _

__ This is the first thing that Aziraphale registers in his mind, the first thing that’s just  _ clicked _ since he’s walked into the lounge with Chris. 

Actually, he should take that back. He’s registered lots of things - like the fact that there are men everywhere, and many of them are covertly approaching one another, as if on a spy mission - or that the music is loud, too loud for his liking. 

And although he would never admit it, he knows that this is not a lounge. At least, not the kind he had in mind. When he’d acquiesced to coming here, he’d envisioned a quiet smoking parlour, a few hazy women lying on chaise sofas, and a man with a glass of whiskey hanging by the piano. 

Yes, this was most definitely not what he’d had it mind. 

This is what Crowley would call a  _ club.  _

Oh. Right. Crowley. 

This is exactly what Chris had meant by telling him to get out of the bookshop, wasn’t it? To get him off his mind.  _ Good luck,  _ he’d thought bitterly, as they’d shared a bottle together. It wasn’t the kind that Crowley liked, so it wasn’t the kind that he liked, but he drank it anyways. Besides, he hadn’t had much company over since…

“Hey, Ezra?” Chris yells over the wave of new-fangled sound, keeping a watchful eye over him, like a mother hen over her chick. 

“Yes, dear?”

Chris frowns for a moment. “Ah, you’re still doing that, huh? Alright, listen - you just let go. Don’t even think about Anthony, alright?”

Aziraphale bites his lip. Chris stares at him for a moment - oh, he’s pulling that face again. 

“Ezra?”

“Yes,” he says it quietly, so that the music will engulf his words.  _ No,  _ he thinks miserably.  _ I can’t not think about him.  _ “Don’t you worry, dear. Why don’t you get back to Don? I’m sure he’s missing you.”

“Yes, I’m sure he is. Now, look, I’m just trying to help you, Ezra...we’ve been friends for what, twenty years now?”

“I-I understand, Chris, and-and I  _ appreciate _ it-”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Yes, that’s what I said, wasn’t it? You’ve been so awfully down lately over that-that boy-”

“He’s as old as I am, Chris.”

“Yes, but you’re 40 and I’m 60. You’re both boys in my eyes.” He pauses for a second, shakes his head, and downs a shot of something he must have grabbed from somewhere. They edge further into the epicenter; Aziraphale is now quite sure this is not the place for him, and he doesn’t have the heart to correct him. 

Luckily, someone seems to recognize Chris. This is good - it gives Aziraphale a chance to run, but he doesn’t. He would feel bad. After all, the poor man is doing this to help him, right? 

* * *

“So, you’re the guy that wrote  _ Mr. Norris?” _

Chris is nodding as he signs a shirt. “Yes.”

“And who’s your friend?”

They share a glance before looking at the young woman standing before them. “Oh, we don’t know each other,” Aziraphale said sadly. “We’ve never met before.”

“Oh. Funny. Well, it was nice meeting you, Mr. Isherwood. And you too, sir.”

Aziraphale smiles, performing a minor miracle so that the woman would have a perfectly normal, albeit incredibly safe drive home. 

They mingle with a few more people (although they did it very awkwardly) before a man wearing a club uniform approaches them. 

“Call for Isherwood, sir, from Bachardy?”

Chris turns to him and shrugs. “You’ll be alright?”

“Tip-top,” he says, though shakily. “You go on, I’ll be just fine.”

Chris nods. “Good seeing you, Ezra. And - oh, if you’ll need anything-”

“Just call, yes. I-I have your number.”

“Good, good.” 

And this is how Aziraphale found himself alone in a foreign club. Of course, he’s expected to be comfortable within its confines; he’s older, on all accounts, than the youth that are clutching onto one another as funk blasts through the rooms.

He’s supposed to know his way around, supposed to stand with the literary crowd and joke around with writers like Chris. 

But he just can’t do it.  _ Why?  _ It doesn’t make sense. Of course, there goes his brain again, coming to the inevitable conclusion - Crowley. It’s always Crowley. Always. Every damn second of his never-ending life is spent either considering what titles to smuggle into his shop or how much he wishes to tell Crowley what he’s been hiding since the beginning - his love for him. 

And while Crowley has probably expected that he loves him, this is different. Aziraphale has only accepted it in recent years, relatively speaking, but he knows that this is something more than just the eternal love that all angels hold for all creatures.

This is the love that humans write so fondly of, and sometimes so harshly of. This is the love that so many people avoid, hate, and lie about - something meant to be so pure, so chaste, but often entirely destroyed purely by the free will given to humans by Her. 

He loves him, and this is why that night had been so painful. He knew it had to happen. He’d been so sure that had been the night that he would do it, say the words that had been on his mind for what felt like eternity, or what probably  _ was _ eternity...but he’d mucked it up again, because he was the stupid Principality Aziraphale.

Eventually, he finishes a glass of wine that had miraculously appeared some time ago and wanders along the dirty, crowded rooms until he stumbles upon what appears to be an empty room. There’s a beaded entryway, a long, pink sofa standing against the wall, framed by low blue lighting. 

He’s about to ask the management staff if they have any light reading materials, and that even Melody Maker would do, although it’s probably Crowley’s first pick and not his, when someone taps him on his shoulder.

“Chris?” He asks hopefully, and turns, although it is not Chris. It’s a man, yes, but not Chris - he’s a little taller than him, and more muscular. He wears a button down, which makes him more at ease; long pleated slacks, although he can tell that his Oxfords are not Oxfords, but a reproduction pair of the same kind. 

“No, darling. It’s  _ Joel.”  _ The man gives him a once over before staring at his face for all of five seconds. “Do you know Dorothy?”

Oh dear. This is not the question Aziraphale had been expecting. Well, he hadn’t exactly been expecting a question to start, but he couldn’t leave it unanswered, could he? 

No. That would be impolite. And, as an angel, Aziraphale could not be impolite. 

“I do rather believe I’m so,” he narrows his eyes, gathering that the other man hasn’t caught on yet.  _ But he’s asked, hasn’t he?  _ “Er...bit out of practice with this one too, I suppose - um,  _ omi-palone?”  _

Joel nods. “Well, you did just fine - although I thought you were a bit of a dilly-boy, myself.”

Aziraphale gasps. “I-I wouldn’t-I would never-”

“It’s alright, dear. Haven’t you heard? They’re passing some law. You won’t have to troll for trade much longer, if you get my meaning.”

“I think you have me mistaken,” Aziraphale says carefully, backing up against the wall. “I don’t...I’m not a  _ dilly, _ nor am I a…”

“You naff?”

Aziraphale considers his options. He would like to say: 

_ ‘Quiet, please! I am seriously considering leaving this establishment if you are to keep putting your cod lills on me!’ _

__ But of course, principalities aren’t impolite. So instead, he says  _ this:  _

“Nanti.”

“Good,” Joel’s voice has become a low rumble of thunder as he presses himself against Aziraphale; he tries to plant his lips against his neck, and Aziraphale tries to pull himself away. This is not what he wants. Why did he expect anything else? 

Suddenly, though, Joel stops. And screams. “Ow! What the  _ fu-” _

__ Alarmed, Aziraphale gasps, but in an instant all his fears are dashed; not only is Joel twitching on the floor, but Crowley’s there, his red hair newly styled, wearing a rather dashing cochineal turtleneck.

“...Crowley.”

“Alright, angel. Tell me the hell why you would say nanti, hm? Why? Of all the  _ bloody _ things-”

“You recognize it?”

“Does this answer your question?  _ Did he get to the basket?” _

“No,” he whispers, and now he’s slightly embarrassed, although so happy to see Crowley, so happy to see that mop of flame red hair. “No, he didn’t.”

“Good. I mean. Er. Yes, good. I can’t…”

Aziraphale sucks in a deep breath. 

“Please. Crowley.”

A beat.

“...Yes, angel?”

“Don’t say it. Please. I-I just…” he’s trailing off again, and oh dear, his face was wet. He’s crying in front of who is meant to be his mortal enemy, his sworn enemy, that he is to avoid at all costs and defeat on every measure. 

But Crowley knows all this too, and has known him long enough that he can read him like a book. So he puts his arm around him, and walks him out - back into the dizzyingly dim lighting and the loud music. 

Once they were outside, Aziraphale remembers that Chris has driven him here, and now he’s gone. 

“...Crowley?”

“Hm?”

“I-I don’t-”

“Ride?”

He only nods. 

* * *

Somehow, Crowley manages to get him in the bookshop; he’s in a bumbling, messy state, but so is the back room. 

“What happened in here?” Crowley asks as he perches on the chair that he always sits in, leaving Aziraphale to the sofa. He shakes his head. 

“I had a friend over. I’m sorry, dear...I’ve made a-”

“I don’t want apologies, angel. I just want to know that you’re okay…” he pauses, then frowns. “Wait. You have friends?”

Now it’s Aziraphale’s turn to frown. “Of course I- what makes you think I wouldn’t?”

“Well...you never leave the bookshop.”

“I did today, didn’t I?”

“Alright, but you  _ rarely _ leave the bookshop.”

“I have friends, Crowley,” he mutters stiffly. “You just aren’t around enough to meet them.”

This seems to dig in a bit deeper than intended, though, and he can tell that he’s hit something.

“Who was he?”

“How did you…?”

“Lucky guess.”

“Mr. Isherwood,” he murmurs proudly. “He’s really  _ so _ wonderfully nice.”

“Yeah? How’d you manage to bag him?” Crowley snaps, leaning forward, his glasses just far down enough that he can peer into those wide, serpentine eyes.

Aziraphale sniffs. 

“I didn’t  _ bag _ him. I’ll have you know he’s quite happy with his  _ partner. _ ”

“Ah. And how did he take figuring it out?”

“Figuring what out?”

“That we’re...y’know. Not like  _ them. _ Supernatural entities, and whatnot.”

“I haven’t told him yet.”

_ “What?!”  _

__ “It’s not exactly the easiest thing to explain!”

“Aziraphale. He makes stuff up for a living! How the Heaven is he  _ not _ going to believe you?” 

Aziraphale pauses. 

“How did you know that he makes things up? Wait.”

The color drains from Crowley’s face. “I-I heard an...interview. And the name came up.”

“An interview,” Aziraphale repeats. “Would you like to tell me the truth?”

“That’s...kind of close, right?”

“Oh, you wonderfully lovely demon!” Aziraphale jumps up from the sofa to hug him, but stops midway. “You do read.”

“M’not lovely,” Crowley says under his breath. “It’s just books, angel. Nothing special about it.”

“I knew it,” Aziraphale says proudly as he plants himself back on the sofa. “I-”

“Angel?”

“Yes, dear?”

“What was that about, earlier? Back at the…”

“Club?”

“Mhm.”

“Nothing, I-”

“It was something, Aziraphale, don’t mess around right now,” Crowley’s tone has grown sharp again. “Don’t lie to me, I don’t like it. So tell me.  _ Now.” _

“I just got into a bit of a...sticky situation-”

“A man pressing his fucking dick against you, that’s a sticky situation? And what do you call it when-”

“That’s enough,” Aziraphale growls, getting up from the sofa to pace the room. “You know, I could have handled myself back there. I don’t need you running around rescuing me every time I’m in trouble.” 

“Is that what you think all this is? Hm?”

Aziraphale stops. Looks at him. 

“What?”

“I admit it. I’m probably a bit too protective of you. But for Somebody’s sake, angel, he was getting too close.”

“I know.”

“Wh-then why would you-”

“I just...You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh, yeah? Fine. Sit,” Crowley points to the sofa, and so he sits. “We have all of eternity. Or until, well. You know.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says quickly, itching for a glass of wine. Even a bottle. It would help wash away the building humiliation he’s beginning to experience. “I should have warded him off. Performed a minor miracle.”

Crowley frowns. “But...why? Why would you ever tell him-”

“Because I  _ am _ available,” Aziraphale says, standing up sharply and all too fast. “Crowley. I-I can’t...oh, just listen, demon - I-I’m saving myself.”

If Crowley had been drinking something, he would have spit it out. His eyes have grown wide again. Oh dear. 

“You’re-you’re  _ what?”  _

__ “Well. I could have said  _ yes. _ But...I’m not-”

“Well, are you or aren’t you?!” Crowley is standing up too, his face twisted from frustration. “You aren’t making any sense. I worry about you, and here you go-”

“I THOUGHT IF I SAID I WAS AVAILABLE YOU WOULD TAKE A DAMN HINT FOR A CHANGE!” Aziraphale yells, then clamps a hand over his mouth. Crowley stops. 

“You can’t be serious. Az- _angel._ You could have gotten yourself hurt, and I wouldn’t have...if I wasn’t _there_ \- oh sod it, I guess it doesn’t matter. You’re serious then?”

Oh dear. It dawns on Aziraphale that he hadn’t quite thought much of this through.   
  
But it’s okay.   
  
It’s okay, because Crowley understands.

“I am,” Aziraphale whispers, almost out of breath. “I mean, I probably should have...I mean, it was probably stupid of me to-”

“No, no, no, it’s alright,” Crowley’s anger seems to have washed itself away, his lovely amber eyes dripping with...with… 

_ Love.  _

__ “It’s alright, angel,” Crowley repeats, whispering too, his arms already wrapped around him, and how warm they feel - it’s an incredible feeling, a perfectly tender one at that. He’s smoothing out his hair, too, just as he’d envisioned in his dreams. “It’s alright. I understand now. I’m sorry.”

“It’s just...I can’t...we can’t…”

“I know,” Crowley mutters unhappily, pulling himself away. “We shouldn’t have had this conversation. I shouldn’t even be here.”

“But I’m happy that you are,” he says, stopping him before he can exit. “I...I want you to want me, really and truly, dearest. I need you. I mean, yes, I...I can be independent. But I do like having you around to...to-”

“For rescues?”

“Erm-yes, and for dinners and lunches and-”

“And something more?”

Aziraphale bites his lip. 

“Yes. Oh yes, I think that can be arranged,” he murmurs, planting a kiss on the demons cheek. “Just don’t go so soon. Please.”

“I won’t,” Crowley mumbles, cradling the angels arms in his.  _ Lovely lovely lovely. _ “Every angel needs a little bit of respect.”

“Hm?”

“It’s from a song,” Crowley grins, pecking kisses along the bridge of his nose. “It was playing back there.”

“It sounds...interesting.”

“Oh, it is,” Crowley hums the tune into his ear, holding him for as long as they can stand there. “It’s sweeter than honey…”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! I was able to take a break today and ended up writing this. I know I should’ve written for When In Rome, but I thought this would be a nice little diversion from what I usually write. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! (Also please don’t pull an Aziraphale when you are in a club. This is for your own good. No means no, and if you don’t want to do something DON’T DO IT AND GET AWAY.)


End file.
